Identity
by Corralero
Summary: War is finished, celebrations have begun…Identity is a delicate thing and easily broken by those who are too careless. One event, five individuals, five struggles…You are never nothing.
1. Age

Something of an experiment - a word of advice, **read the quotations and definitions**. I know its easy to skip over them but I wrote it as a whole piece. Enjoy and please let me know what you think :)

**Identity - _the fact of being who or what a person or thing is._**

_**Age - **__the length of time that a person or thing has existed._

He was locked in a small cubicle; strong back half slumped against the door as calloused hands grasped desperately at unruly hair. Shuddering, he pushed himself upright and stumbled over to the toilet seat, sitting down heavily and tearing at the flowing silk neck tie, ripping it off and frantically loosening the shirt buttons until golden skin was revealed and a chest rose and fell in a ragged, intense rhythm. Rapid blinking, a convulsive swallow, a mouth working for more air, fingers twisting into a scrap of cloth, body flinching violently as the door to the toilets swung open, emitting a blast of noise.

What in hell's name was wrong with him?

**Panic attack -** _a sudden overwhelming feeling of acute and disabling anxiety._

He wanted to rip himself away from this state, to smash his fists against the walls, yell and roar out his uncertainties, run hard and fast and not stop for anyone…but he couldn't. Not here. Here he had to be polite, talk quietly, walk sedately, and if he damaged anything, deposits would be lost…Heero sighed. At some point during his internal wandering, his body had calmed itself, leaving only a sense of weariness and mortified embarrassment.

He had panicked.

**Panic - **_sudden uncontrollable fear or anxiety._

Heero Yuy, Gundam pilot and 'perfect solider', had panicked in the middle of the most civilised and secure of civilian peace celebration. The pilot who had face down armadas of mobile suits was unable to face peace-minded aristocrats and politicians.

He really didn't want to go back out there, so he hid. He sat on the toilet seat and drew his knees up to his chest like a child.

He wasn't a child, yet out there he felt suffocated, like he was being forced to act the sedate forty year old with the polite manners, or a bright 20-30 year old with a stellar career within his reach. He felt aged and wearied beyond belief.

Age was a curious thing. Ask a stranger to tell you about him or herself, and they will invariably impart their age. As if it mattered, Heero thought, as if it was some part of their identity. Maybe that was why he felt so lost, having no age. He remembered Trowa's rejoinder to a disbelieving ally.

'But you're only 15!'

'We are soldiers.'

'_Age will not be defied.'  
_**Francis Bacon, **_**Essays**_** (1625) 'Of Regimen of Health'**

Soldier, warriors, pilots, killers…look what came before all else. They said war and peace demanded sacrifice. They also said the same thing of success in business, sport, and academia. And they had sacrificed…their innocence, their consciences, their futures. Their age seemed little in comparison. Suddenly all the sacrifices he had delivered gladly and with conviction had been reduced down to a congratulatory pat on the back, some circles of metal and the possibly of conviction of war crimes. He was left clinging to nothing, hugging his nameless, ageless nothing of an identity with a vulnerability that horrified him.

'"_You"; your joys and your sorrows, your memories and ambitions, your sense of personal identity and free will, are in fact no more than the behaviour of a vast assembly of nerve cells and their associated molecules.'  
_**Francis Crick, _The Astonishing Hypothesis: The Scientific Search for the Soul_ (1994)**

'Never nothing.'

He looked up in surprise at the voice that spoke from the other side of the door.

'Heero Yuy, you are never nothing.'

**To be continued...**


	2. Class

As before, read the quotations and definitions. Duo's turn.

**Class - _a social stratum sharing basic economic, political, or cultural characteristics, and having the same social position._**

He was pushed up against a smooth marble pillar, hidden behind a thick velvet curtain, long braid of hair falling past a clumsy bowtie, the unfamiliar loops pulled together slightly wrong. The braid finished with a neat black bow, an effort ignored by the gathering outside. The slender body was literally shaking with pent up rage, knuckles white with repression, nails biting into flesh. Indigo eyes flashed with hurt tears, humiliation rushing across his face in a red tide.

Cry - _1. shed tears. 2. shout or scream loudly. _

His mind was a white-hot jumble. How dare they? How fuckin' dare they? Sneer at his less than perfect speech, his inability to waltz, his glaring errors during dinner both in etiquette and conversation. Even worse, the suspicious eyes, the well manicured hands reaching out to grasp purses, check wallets, double-checking their watches were still there after shaking hands, rings still present.

Duo turned, pressing a heated cheek against the cool marble. He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't care. They had nothing on him, nothing on the Gundam pilots. None of them had fought like he had, pulled themselves up from the gutter like he had, and damn well made it with sheer grit and determination, with their inherited titles, wealth and privileges. What had they fought for other than the right to look down on those they thought lower than themselves? He pulled his back straight in an attempt at defiance. No one looked down on him!

'_Enough of blood and tears. Enough.'_  
**Yitzhak Rabin, at the signing of the Israel-Palestine Declaration, Washington, 13 September 1993****.**

He shivered in the dark corner and wrapped his arms around himself, gritting his teeth as he tried to block the memory of his desperate attempts to produce a good bowtie be instantly reduced to shreds with one scathing glance. Damn it! Why was this getting him? Surely his skin should be thick enough by now? Surely his achievements as one of the five Gundam pilots, world heroes, should count for more than his street rat past?

And yet one glance from his social superiors made him feel like…nothing.

'Never nothing.'

His hand shot to an empty space where his knife should have been had the security not been so tight.

'Duo Maxwell, you are never nothing.'

**To be continued...**


	3. Name

**Name - _a word or a combination of words by which a person, place, or thing, a body or class, or any object of thought is designated, called or known. _**

He was staring out into a dusky garden, full of perfect rows of perfect hedges, flowers and lawns, never over-stepping the boundaries. And through the clear glass of an impressive double bay window, he could just catch the faint outline of sharp chiselled features, watchful green eyes and a long fall of brown hair. The face of a boy with no name. The eyebrows moved fractionally as he frowned, hell set on ignoring the glittering, celebrating throng behind him as much as they were ignoring him.

'_The only factor becoming scare in a world of abundance is human attention. _

**Kevin Kelly.**

That cursed blessed ability to have the face that people's eyes slide over, the personality that sinks into the background. It had been, along with many other things, an undoubted advantage. It had helped them _win_. Now, maybe, it felt more like a curse. Suddenly identity seemed important. And suddenly name felt important to identity. And that was unsettling news to a Gundam pilot with a stolen name.

He drummed his fingertips on the windowpane, suddenly rebellious, not caring if it wasn't the done thing, wanting people to look, wanting people to _notice_.

**Attention - **_1. the act or facilty of attending, especially by directing the mind to an object. 2. observant care; consideration: Individual attention is given to each child. 3. civility or courtesy: attention to a guest._

Inwardly, he snorted at himself. His instincts were so strong that, rather than screaming (his present desired method for attention), the maximum extent to which he would go was to softly tap his fingers.

A quiet sigh left his lips.

It wasn't as if he even liked the people behind them. In fact, he was personally blaming them for this little run of melancholy. He had been introduced to so many people it made his head spin. And he had never heard such names! Ranks, titles, the third, the fifth, the sixth, lord, ladies, sirs and justices.

'_Have regard for your name, since it will remain for you longer than a great store of gold.'_

**Ecclesiastics, **_**41:12**_

All he had to offer was a stolen name, unless, and his mouth quirked into a small smile, they wanted to hear his previous name.

Nanashi, no-name, nothing.

'Never nothing,'

He locked eyes with the reflection behind his own faint outline, defensive and challenging.

'Trowa Barton, you are never nothing.'

**To be continued**


	4. Family

**Family - _a group of individuals related by blood, marriage, or adoption._**

He was slowly unravelling, right here, in front of them all, and it simply would not do. His hand was clenched so hard around the slender flute of his glass he feared it would snap, and his anger was becoming harder to conceal.

**Anger - **_resentment, exasperation; choler, bile, spleen. Fury, indignation, rage imply deep and strong feelings aroused by injury, injustice, wrong, etc. displease, vex, irritate, exasperate, infuriate, enrage, incense, madden._

Being the youngest and only brother of 29 sisters was challenging in itself. Being the youngest and only brother of 29 rich, intelligent and influential sisters was even worse.

To a certain extent he had submitted to their idea of the perfect brother and heir, and then had backfired and rocketed off to war with only half a backward glance. Now they were all together again for the first time and he was paying back in style. Treated as a naughty little boy and subtly yet public humiliated with the nuances that only a woman could achieve.

And beneath it all was the less negligible yet resoundingly and silently present resentment of a strong woman against a privilege man.

**Gender - **_the sex of an individual, male or female, based on reproductive anatomy. _

And he responded, provoked and riled as only a younger brother could be, snapping out his answers with uncharacteristic nastiness that made polite eyebrows raise in surprise and neatly made him the perpetrator and left him more confused and frustrated than ever before.

'_Anger is the feeling that makes your mouth work faster than your mind.'_

**Evan Esar**

Eventually he disentangled himself and stood alone by the punch bowl, breathing deeply through his nose with rage even as he inwardly winced at his lack of control. He was not a little brother to be shoved at and manipulated by his resentful sisters, he was not some little innocent heir to tutored and lectured. Yet even as the firm words resounded in his head or left his mouth, they instantly reduced in size, credibility and worth into the words of a whingeing boy, bouncing arrogantly up and down, a puffed up popinjay before his betters, who deflated him with tools as simple as the withholding of respect, belief and sincerity.

A sudden crunch and flash of pain brought his attention to his hand. The delicate stem had snapped and the glass was digging into his flesh. Shame flooded through him at his lack of control, and swirling along in it's current was resignation.

'_Anger is a signal, and one worth listening to.'_

**Harriet Lerner**

They would never see him as anything more than nothing.

'Never nothing.'

He accepted a damp cloth to wrap around his bleeding hand, face downcast.

'Quatre Winner, you are never nothing.'


	5. Morals

**Morals - _of pertaining to, or concerned with, the principles or rules of right conduct or the distinction between right and wrong; ethical: moral attitudes._**

He sat, straight backed, staring down at his half empty plate, completely at a loss. Two strong instincts warred within him. Those he faced were technically his elders and his betters, clan leaders, not of the Dragon clan, but those of allegiance and honour. Therefore etiquette demanded that he did not talk back. Society and tradition dictated that he listened in respectful silence as they meticulously held up each and every moral he fought for and tore it into perfect pieces.

'_To have doubted one's own first principles is the mark of a civilized man' _

**Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. (1841-1935)**

His other instinct, the one that governed his ferocity at war, that had earned his reputation, his independence, demanded that he fight back, that he raise his voice, tore their arguments to shreds with the cold, bloody reality of war that their theoretical practise had never known.

'_Doubt whom you will, but never yourself.'_

**Christine Bovee**

Had it been war he would have done so. In war, the urgent present took precedent over tradition.

Yet now there was peace. Now there _was _no urgency. So he listened in respectful silence and didn't fight back.

For what was the point? Circumstances no longer dictated the need for those fiery beliefs.

Thus was it true?

Where they…nothing?

And, by extension, where they not always nothing?

**Doubt - **_1. to be uncertain about; consider questionable or unlikely; hesitiate to believe. 2. Archaic. to fear; be apprehensive about. _

Had his values truly been so transitory and fleeting, his foundation, his identity, his sanity?

His ruthlessly philosophical mind took hold of the treacherous route, entering the debate and viewing both sides of the coin. He could see the logic, see the strains of truth and credibility in the convoluted discussion flowing around him.

And it left the bitter taste of doubt in his mouth, and slowly, slowly, he felt it all unravel. Jerkily, he lifted a forkful to his lips and half gagged as he tried to swallow, glancing around as he did so, trying to spot his companions. For, loathed as he was to admitted it, he needed an anchor.

This was too dangerous. It may have been no more than a game of minds and phrases to those around him, but they were toying with something too precious; his morals, his cause, his identity, and in their selfish, unreal world, they were pulling it apart and turning him to nothing. He half started up and felt a reassuring hand grasp at his sleeve.

'_Never let your sense of morals get in the way of doing what's right.'_

**Issac Asimov (1920 – 1992)**

'Never nothing.'

He was drawn slowly back down.

'Chang Wufei, you are never nothing.'

**To be continued...**


	6. Conclusion

**Conclusion **

_**1.**__ an end or finish. _

_**2.**__ the summing-up of an argument or text. _

_**3.**__ a judgement or decision reached by reasoning. _

_**4.**__ the settling of a treaty or agreement._

The soft chimes of a bell rang out across the muted dinner conversation, causing an instant hush as Relena Peacecraft stood, her sash of royalty clear against the pearly white of her evening gown. Her eyes swept across the banqueting hall as she held aloft her glass.

'My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen, I propose a toast.'

The company rose as one.

'To those who, without their bravery, intelligence and sacrifice, we would not be starting this new era of peace. To the Gundam Pilots.'

'To the Gundam Pilots.'

The objects of the toast sat scattered at the heads of different tables, downcast, lost in their own thoughts.

The period of time just before 10.00 pm found Duo Maxwell leaning his elbows against an empty table as waltz music drifted through the massive double doors leading to the ballroom. He didn't look up as a figure dropped into a chair beside him.

'Tell me when it's polite enough ta blow this joint,' he growled.

'Not until eleven at least. Relena insisted we must stay until then,' Wufei replied, sounding equally disgruntled.

Surprised, Duo cocked his head to one side.

'Not havin' fun, Wu?'

Any reply that might have been made was forestalled by the appearance of a manservant requesting their presence, urgently. With an odd sense of shared reluctance, they followed the man away from the celebrations towards the far side of the house, eventually arriving above at the mansion's entrance, three floors up.

They were met by three bemused pilots and a princess who seemed to be hiding an inexplicable excitement. Badly.

'Relena-' Quatre began, but was stopped as she put a gloved finger to her lips.

'Listen.'

Silence fell in the small room that led out to a balcony, sheltered by a thick velvet drape. A muted rumbling sound became a steady roar, voice upon voice upon voice. They looked at each other in startled puzzlement. Suddenly a voice spoke from beyond the curtain.

'Three, two, one and …live.'

'This is for you,' Relena whispered as she grasped the curtain and swept it back. They stepped hesitantly out on to the balcony.

The view rushed to met them, grasping them and snatching their breath away. Trowa's eyes widened as Heero's mouth dropped open. The volume of noise magnified upon their arrival and a blast of air sent Wufei's trousers billowing and Duo's braid dancing behind him. Quatre was grasping the railings, white-knuckled from the sheer heart-pounding, nerve-crackling energy in the air.

They stood looking down upon the upturned faced of a multitude beyond count, stretching away into the grounds, candles twinkling and banners flying. Amongst the gathering were raised huge screens, showing yet more crowds from around the world and every colony, cheering wildly.

They had all joined Quatre by the railing, hanging on for dear life as they stared out, wide eyed.

'Wh-what…?' Wufei stuttered.

'They wanted to say thank you,' Relena said. 'They were the ones that mattered, weren't they? And they _are _the ones that matter. You listen to them.' She waved an arm out and the noise redoubled. 'And not to them.' She flapped a contemptuous hand behind her at the ongoing ball.

They stood there gaping at her, then suddenly Trowa burst into laughter, picking her up and swinging her around. She squeaked in surprise and tottered at he set her down, only to be steadied by Heero. He stared down at her, and whispered, 'Thank you.'

In the moment after, something akin to panic fluttered across his face. Then he reached out and gently pushed back a strand of hair.

Rolling his eyes, Duo stared out across the mass of people, staring at the colony screens, at the third world screens, at poverty and gratitude mingled. Swallowing, he felt emotions rise and dropped his head. Next to him, Quatre released a long, steady sigh, closed his eyes and smiled.

'At last…I'm feeling right again.'

Wufei nodded, having regained his balance.

Behind them, a smile of delight.

'You are never nothing...'

**The End**

_'After all, all he did was string together a lot of old, well-known quotations.'_

**H. L. Mencken (1880 - 1956), _on Shakespeare_**


End file.
